The Bathroom
by Teobi
Summary: Mary visits the bathroom in Cabin One where Marion Crane was murdered.


The Bathroom

Mary stood outside Cabin One in the heat of a summer afternoon.

This was it. This was the place where Norman had killed her Aunt Marion.

Mary wiped her sleeve across her forehead. She put the key in the lock, turned it, and went in.

The air inside the cabin was still and fetid with the smell of stale cigarettes. Warren Toomey hadn't been fussy about the clientele and Norman fired him after finding drugs in one of the rooms. Each cabin would have to be thoroughly fumigated before the fastidious proprietor allowed any guests back in. With the motel closed until further notice, the place was quiet as the grave.

 _If rooms could talk,_ she thought, her dark almond eyes taking in the bed and the dresser, the bedside table with lamp, the lone chair and the door to the closet. Bird pictures on the walls alluded to Norman's hobby, but for all intents and purposes it was just another motel room, albeit a slightly worn and shabby one. If she had expected the ghost of Aunt Marion to appear, she was disappointed. There was no sense of anything supernatural except the pervasive stillness, the total lack of movement save her own.

She opened the drawer on the bedside table. There was a dusty Bible, a couple of sticky looking nickels and a dime, and a lone sheet of stationery with Bates Motel printed on it, covered in childish doodles. Her curiosity sated, she closed the drawer and wiped her fingers on her jeans.

Dust motes whirled in Mary's wake as she crossed the room to open the rear window, unaware that Norman had done the same thing all those years ago to let fresh air into the cabin while Aunt Marion got settled. She peered through the curtains at the mansion on the hill and shivered. There had been nothing spooky about the room until that house became framed in the window, a somber monolith guarding its secrets, watching her every move. She decided against opening the window. She didn't know if ghosts could get out, but she certainly didn't want any getting in.

She left the window and stood in front of the bathroom door. This was where her mother, Lila, told her _it_ happened. Marion's gruesome murder. Stabbed to death as she took a shower, her personal, private space violated in the worst way imaginable. Vulnerable and naked, powerless against Norman Bates' insane strength as he plunged the knife into her until there was more blood splattered across the tiles than there was in her body.

 _Remember that when he tries to win you over with his boyish charm_ , Lila had said, spitting out the words like poison. _He's a dangerous man who should be locked up where he belongs._

Mary took a deep breath and opened the door. Her skin goosebumped all over, as though she were standing in a Halloween Fun House. There was no window in the bathroom so she reached in and switched on the light, hoping that no arm would dart out of the darkness and grab her. But the light came on and illuminated white tiles. No blood. No bodies. No boogeymen.

It was a bathroom.

Just a bathroom.

There was a toilet (with the seat thankfully down), a sink, and a bath that doubled as a shower. It was not a modern bathroom- the utilitarian fixtures looked as though they hadn't been changed since the 1950s. The bottom of the shower curtain was grimy, the grouting around the taps and shower head dark with mold. Mary's mouth twisted down at the corners. Norman hated a dirty bathroom. Toomey on the other hand, was content just to sit in the office and take peoples' money. She didn't like to think of all the things that had taken place at the motel after Norman was put away. There were things that people did nowadays that put old-fashioned murder in the shade.

Mary approached the tub. A cold prickle ran down her spine. _Now_ she was starting to feel strange. Was she standing in Aunt Marion's ghostly footsteps? Is this where she had stepped into the tub for a soothing shower, unaware that her life would end violently in less than five minutes? Was she standing where Norman stood when he killed her? She looked at the tiles, tried to imagine them splashed with blood. Maybe some of that discoloration in the grouting _was_ blood. You could never get rid of blood completely. A lot of crimes got solved from one drop of blood hidden away somewhere. But Aunt Marion's death was not an unsolved crime. Mary's parents had caught Norman red-handed... quite literally.

She stared into the bath, feeling an unexpected sense of sadness and desolation. What a way to die. What a place to die. The only way it could have been worse was if Aunt Marion had been sitting on the toilet. But that was hardly something to be grateful for.

A wave of nausea hit her. She had to get out of this claustrophobic room before she spewed everywhere. Now convinced that she could smell death, she ran through the cabin and out into the fresh air where she leaned against a post, filling her lungs with oxygen. After a minute or two she steeled herself and went back in to turn off the bathroom light, close the door and leave everything as it had been when she first entered. She didn't want Norman knowing she'd been anywhere near Cabin One. The plan was to drive him insane without getting herself killed in the process.

Had she taken her time and been a little more observant, she would have noticed the flicker of an eye through a tiny peephole in the wall.

Mary returned to the house. Norman was on laundry duty in the utility room, which had given her the chance to go snooping. She poked her head around the door to say hello. The washing machine was on, humming softly to itself, and a pile of sheets and pillowcases sat waiting for the next load. But of Norman, there was no sign.

She wasn't too alarmed. Knowing how easily Norman got distracted, she figured he'd be pottering around somewhere in the vicinity. She went into the kitchen to make coffee. As a safety precaution, she pulled open the cutlery drawer just to check the big knife was there. It was. She breathed a sigh of relief, closed the drawer, and took the coffee can out of the overhead cupboard.

She was sitting at the table waiting for the water to boil when Norman finally appeared at the back door. He looked hot. His face and neck gleamed with sweat and his hands and fingers were dirty. Damp hair stuck up all over his head. But he looked happy- in fact he was positively grinning from the effects of physical exertion.

Mary looked him up and down. it was almost impossible to imagine this lanky, likable man stabbing someone to death in a mindless frenzy.

"Where have _you_ been?" she asked, watching him walk over to the sink.

"Out back," he answered, breathlessly. "Digging."

"To China?"

He cocked his head with a mock-sarcastic look.

"As a matter of fact, I thought I might plant a vegetable garden."

Mary blinked, caught off guard by this simple act of domesticity. "Norman, that's a great idea!"

"Better than digging to China." He smirked at her as he washed his hands. "And where have _you_ been? I wanted you to help me fold sheets but you disappeared like the White Rabbit."

Mary's throat tightened. She hadn't prepared herself for this question. She could either lie outright or tell half a truth. She decided on the latter.

"Down at the cabins," she said with a casual air that she didn't really feel.

He dried his hands on a towel and was about to pour himself a glass of water. He paused with his hand on the faucet and turned towards her.

"Oh? What for?"

"Just looking around, I guess. Now that Toomey's gone, I don't feel so threatened. It's a nice place- kind of like something you'd run into in an old movie."

His eyes on her felt a little intense and she shifted uncomfortably.

"There's a lot of work to be done to bring it up to scratch," he said. "You're welcome to help out, if you want. I know you're a busy girl, but an extra pair of hands sure would be appreciated."

Mary nodded a little too enthusiastically. "I'd love to," she agreed.

"Great," he said, returning to the task of pouring his water. "The place could certainly do with a woman's touch. Mother was always very good with the little details- cushions and bedspreads, decorative pillowcases. It's one of the things I miss about her. Of course it's one thing to make a room _look_ cozy, it's quite another to make it a place where you would want to be."

Mary watched him silently as he tipped his head back and gulped down his water. Somewhere in his subconscious mind there had to be an image of Aunt Marion in her death throes, her bloody body writhing under his onslaught, screaming for help that would never come. He was the last person to see her alive. He had brutally taken her life, her future, the very soul from her body. He had done all that and yet here he was, calmly talking about vegetable gardens and frilly pillowcases. The world was upside down, and Mary felt herself tipping with it.

The wave of nausea came over her again and she knew, too late, that she should never have gone into that bathroom. She cursed herself for her stupidity. If only she wasn't so damned impulsive. Everyone was right- she was a silly girl with a head of wood and she deserved everything she got.

A sudden, ear-splitting scream made her jump out of her skin. Her head snapped up, eyes wide and blinking, automatically checking to make sure Norman had no knife in his hand. But he was right there in front of her, leaning on the counter with his arms folded, watching her with idle curiosity. He was unexpectedly handsome in the golden afternoon sunlight, the furthest thing from a deranged killer she could ever have imagined.

"Water's boiled," he said with a smile, pointing at the shrilling kettle and the cloud of steam emanating from it. "Are you going to switch it off, or do I have to do _everything_ around here myself?"

"I got it," she mumbled.

"A plate of cookies would be nice too, while you're at it."

"No need to crack the whip."

He clapped his hands together and began barking out orders like an Army sergeant.

"Step lively, recruit! I can't dig to China on an empty stomach!"

' _Don't let him win you over with his boyish charm_ ', Lila had warned her. But as Mary got up to make the coffee and get the cookies, despite her shaky legs and an image of a tub that glistened with Aunt Marion's blood, she feared it was already too late.


End file.
